Ritual Observance
by JazzyFay
Summary: He would never forget the mornings of his youth. Oneshot. A gift!fic for Del Kaidin.


A gift!fic for Del Kaidin, inspired by MoreSunScreen's beautiful picture "Those Kinda Mornings" at http(colon slash slash)www(dot)deviantart(dot)com(slash)deviation(slash)21651778(slash).

**Ritual Observance**

There was a reason why Sesshoumaru rarely slept. Some might claim that it was due to his status as Lord of the Western Lands; that he could not risk such vulnerability. They would, of course, be wrong. For well over two hundred years, the Second Inu no Taisho had ruled his quadrant of the world with an iron fist. No one foolish enough to attempt a coup would live to tell of it; he did not tolerate fools within his domain.

Others claimed that his insomnia was a sign of strength; that those whose veins carried such pure blood needed no mortal rests. They were only half-right. It was due to the strength and purity of his mother and father's blood that he, the son, required so little sleep. However, Sesshoumaru, was he in a talkative mood, would be the first to inform them as they stared down the tip of his gleaming sword that "needing" and "wanting" were two very different things.

The Lord of the Western Lands needed no sleep; he wanted it. Oh, how he wanted it. The life of an immortal war lord was exhausting, if nothing else. Yet Sesshoumaru was quite unaccustomed to caving into weak desires, even if they were his own. So he fought to keep himself entertained-- some days it would be watching Rin's loving torment of Jaken; others, a one-sided battle with his half-brother would suffice; often it was the silent, cunning dance of constantly expanding the reaches of his hegemony. Still, the monotony of it all grated on him. He was tired.

No, the real reason he refused sleep was far more mundane, yet far more brutal. Sesshoumaru hated mornings. Sleeping meant waking, and waking to the sight of another morning was simply not acceptable.

Of course, that hadn't always been the case. In fact, one might say that the reason Sesshoumaru hated mornings so much was that they had once been his favorite time of day. But that was many long years ago and nothing could quite entomb beloved memories in ridged shells of pain and cynicism like age and time. Still, in the pre-dawn hush when no other creatures dared stir, the mighty lord could remember an earlier time when mornings had brought a sleepy, quiet joy with their arrivals.

He still remembered waking before the first light, how he would sit perfectly still on his futon, ears straining to catch even the slightest sounds from the surrounding corridors. As the echoes of familiar footfalls reached his room, he would dive back under the bedclothes, carefully arranging himself in false slumber the moment before the shouji slid open. His father's chuckles would fill the room, soft yet deep. It wasn't until he was much older that he would understand his father's mirth sprung from the blatancy of his own ruse. Nevertheless, the elder youkai never failed to play along, gently stroking his son's hair back from his face until he "woke" and yawned. He always made sure to yawn; it was the finishing touch on the act. Then his father would smile down at him, that warm smile that was all for Sesshoumaru and no one else. Together they would stand and walk outside, into the Western garden, his father's hand resting on his head, before he was scooped up in both arms. A single leap would bring them to the roof atop Sesshoumaru's room. There they would sit, father and son. As the sun rose, his father would take out his pipe, and soon the sweet smell of burning opium and the lazy spirals of blue-gray smoke would surround him, lulling him back to sleep, wrapped warm and safe in the arms of his father.

It had been their morning ritual for centuries. On rainy mornings, they would perch on the dry ledge below the Western-most watch-tower. In snow, his father would bundle him up in the warm furs of his pelts. In summer, when the ground steamed even as the morning dews formed, his father would lay his armor and pelts off to the side. Always, they watched as dawn crept silently through the Western Lands, lighting their domain. As Sesshoumaru grew older, they would sit side-by-side, sometimes discussing future plans or past tactics, sometimes merely enjoying the silences, but always watching.

Until the day his father died. He knew now that it was foolish, but that night he had lain awake, fervently praying for a miracle—for the moon to never again set and usher in a new dawn. So began a new ritual for the new Lord of the Western Lands.

Yet now, as he sat in silent vigil, watching day break creep through the forest, his tiny human ward asleep in his lap, Sesshoumaru realized that perhaps mornings might once more be tolerable.


End file.
